User blog:Squibstress/Come Autumn, Sae Pensive (1967) - Chapter 10
Title: Come Autumn, Sae Pensive (1967) Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama Warning/s: Explicit sexual situations; character death Published: 02/06/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Ten They were lying in bed the following Saturday, Albus spooned against Minerva’s back, one of her legs thrown casually over his two. This was the position they had been using to make love lately, not so much out of deference to Minerva’s growing belly—it was not yet an insurmountable obstacle—but because it was easier for Albus to control the depth of his thrusts, and he was still nervous about harming her or the baby with his customary ardour. Truth be told, it wasn’t Minerva’s favourite position, but she wasn’t complaining. At least he was inside her, and it allowed him free access to use his hands to bring her to climax. Which is precisely what had just happened when Minerva said, “Molly Prewett knows about the baby.” It took Albus a moment to realise that the subject had suddenly changed from her enthusiastic encouragement of his busy fingers to something more prosaic. He wasn’t sure he would ever fully understand the twists and bends of his wife’s mind. “Molly Prewett? The seventh-year Gryffindor?” he asked. “Yes,” she answered. “Do you mind?” “Not exactly, but don’t you think it would be wise to tell all the students at the same time?” “Yes, but it just seemed the thing to do under the circumstances.” “What circumstances?” “She asked me if I was pregnant.” “And in what context did the subject arise?” he asked, truly curious. It was unlike Minerva to have personal conversations with students. “She needed some advice on a delicate personal matter,” said Minerva. “I see. I take it I shouldn’t ask what matter?” “You would probably regret it if you did,” she said. It had long been Albus’s experience that when Minerva told him he would regret an action, she was painfully correct. “In any event, I think it’s getting to be time to inform the students,” he said, moving his hand to her belly. “Your figure, while still lovely, is now noticeably altered.” “Mmmm,” she said in answer. “What would you say to an announcement at the Halloween Feast?” he asked. “If we must,” she said, sighing. He knew what was troubling her. She disliked being the centre of attention—other than in her classroom, of course—and this particular announcement would place her squarely in the uncomfortable spotlight. It was also a very public declaration of their relationship, which had always been, if not a secret, at least conducted with discretion, particularly where students were concerned, which suited her just fine. He knew she didn’t like the students knowing too much about her private affairs; it was probably a holdover from when she had been a young teacher, anxious to exert her authority, just as the tight bun in which she always wore her hair now had been. Command and aloofness were her weapons in the classroom, and she wielded them with deadly precision. A fecund belly was a physical repudiation of those attributes. Perhaps she thought it a sign of weakness, he mused. It certainly signalled a particular kind of surrender. No wonder she was uneasy. “You’ll need to alert the Board of Governors,” she said. “They won’t take kindly to hearing it from the Daily Prophet.” “No,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll send an owl.” “An owl, Albus? Isn’t that a bit impersonal?” “Possibly. But they are not scheduled to meet again until December, at which point the proverbial Kneazle will be out of the bag, whether we tell them or not,” he said. As it turned out, they needn’t have worried. ~oOo~ Minerva glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes of two. The time would later become etched in her memory as the final moment of “before”. It wasn’t really, of course; it was just the last time she had noted the precise hour and minute, and precision was a talisman Minerva could cling to in a world of gray uncertainties. Now, however, her concern was to finish marking the essays so she could hand them back to the class that was scheduled to report for duty at two p.m. Her quill moved rapidly across the parchment; she did not normally leave her marking—or anything else, for that matter—until the last minute, but the previous night she had been so tired that she had found herself falling asleep mid-comment, requiring her to Vanish much of what she had written in the margins of several students’ papers, so she had just given it up as a bad job and went to bed. She had just slashed an emphatic, “No!” in red ink in the margin of Ian Robinson’s essay and was about to enumerate its shortcomings when she felt a tightening in her lower back. It grew in intensity and wrapped itself around to her abdomen like Devil’s Snare until all she could do was breathe. She knew immediately that it was a contraction. Poppy had told her she might start having small, painless tightenings in her belly and that these were just “practice” contractions, not signalling real labour. Minerva knew this was different. It felt forceful, purposeful—and certainly not painless. She waited, her hands gripping the edge of the desk, and as the pain released her, she watched her knuckles turn from white to pink again. She sat very still, hoping that it was just a mistake, a random pang, and if only she sat perfectly still, it would not be repeated. A minute later, a second pain came, as intense as the first, this time moving from her back to grip her belly more quickly. She knew she needed Poppy. When the pain had abated—this time not really ending, just settling to a dull cramp—she stood. She had taken three steps when a white-hot sheet of agony tore through her abdomen and lower back. She grabbed the back of a chair to keep from falling to the floor, when she felt something warm and wet on her thighs. “Oh, no,” she moaned. She knew her waters had broken and that it was too early, much too early. Fighting the pain, she gathered her robes and skirt up, not caring who might see, and looked, expecting to find a stream of clear amniotic fluid wetting her legs. But what she saw was blood. For a brief moment, she did not believe her eyes, but as she watched, another rivulet of scarlet trickled its way down her thigh and onto her calf. Poppy. She had to get to Poppy. Dropping her skirt, she made it two more steps before she doubled over with another contraction, this one accompanied by the knife-pain clawing its way through her belly. Her wand—where was her wand? She couldn’t walk, but maybe she could send her Patronus for the mediwitch. She felt for it in her robe pocket, but it wasn’t there. She looked up and saw it lying on her desk. She Summoned her wand but couldn’t focus enough to conjure a Patronus. She gathered her strength and yelled, “Help, somebody!” to the empty room and corridor beyond, but nobody answered. It was still at least fifteen minutes before classes were due to resume, and if any of the other teachers were in their classrooms on this corridor, they would not hear her; the rooms had been magically soundproofed so that the noise from one classroom would not disrupt another. She moved slowly toward her desk but stopped when she felt a pop, followed by a gush of fluid she now knew was blood mixed with amnion. She was almost hypnotised, watching it run over her shoe to form a small pool on the classroom floor. She began to see white spots of light in front of her eyes. Then the room shifted oddly and went dark. When the first two students arrived at the Transfiguration classroom twelve minutes later, they were surprised to find it empty. Professor McGonagall was usually seated at her desk when they arrived, or else using her wand to write an assignment on the board at the front of the room. “Where is she?” asked Amos Diggory, taking the opportunity to regrasp Nigella Starsgaard’s hand, which he had released just prior to entering Professor McGonagall’s domain. “Beats me,” said Nigella, shrugging. She had taken a few steps toward her seat near the front of the classroom when she saw Professor McGonagall on the floor between the first row and her desk. “Oh, my god, Amos!” Nigella said as both teens rushed to their fallen teacher. “Professor?” Nigella asked, tentatively taking the prostrate woman’s hand. “Professor, wake up!” She turned to the boy, who was frozen with shock. “Amos, we need to get help—go get someone—a teacher—hurry!” Diggory shot out of the classroom and seconds later ran into—or through—Professor Binns. “Diggle, my boy!” the ghost said, starting to remonstrate with him, but Amos interrupted him. “Professor, you need to come … it’s Professor McGonagall … something’s happened to her!” Diggory said, panting. “Where?” asked Binns. “Her classroom.” “Diggle, go get Professor Flitwick; he’s probably in his classroom,” Binns instructed. He knew that there wouldn’t be much he could do if Professor McGonagall were seriously injured. He could perform no magic, nor could he transport her. Sending Amos sprinting down the corridor, Binns floated rapidly to his colleague’s classroom. When he arrived, he saw Nigella bending over Minerva, who was heaped in a pool of green robes on the floor. He knew immediately that Professor McGonagall needed the hospital wing, and needed it now. A moment later, other students began to arrive for class, along with Amos Diggory and Filius Flitwick, who pushed through the legs of the astonished children at the doorway. Flitwick bent to Minerva, calling her name softly. Like Binns, he knew at first glance that she needed more aid than he could provide. Her pallor told him so. “Mr Diggory, run ahead to the infirmary and tell Madam Pomfrey we are bringing Professor McGonagall. Cuthbert, find Albus and tell him to meet us at there.” Diggory and Binns set on their errands immediately, while the increasing number of students filling the room crowded closer to the scene. “Back away!” Flitwick commanded in a voice louder and sharper than anyone had ever heard him use. Nigella backed up a few inches but still clung to her teacher’s hand. Flitwick waved his wand to Levitate Minerva; when she had risen a few feet from the floor, everyone gasped. Where she had lain, there was a thick smear of blood. As the hem of her robe left the floor, blood began to drip from the saturated material in thick, Knut-sized blots. “Where is it coming from?” asked one boy. There were no obvious injuries.“I don’t know,” snapped Flitwick. “Now get out of the way. Miss Starsgaard, you need to let go of her hand so I can transport her.” He Levitated Minerva as quickly as he could out of the classroom and down the corridor toward the hospital wing. The assembled students stayed where they were, murmuring in shock. All except Nigella, who walked quickly behind Flitwick and Professor McGonagall, following the droplet-trail left by her professor’s blood. ~oOo~ “I need to see the Headmaster at once,” said Professor Binns to the stone gargoyle. “Password?” enquired the creature. “You know I don’t have it. Only the Deputy Headmistress does, and she’s the one I’m here about,” said Binns. He knew the castle’s enchantments would prevent him from merely floating through the door to the Headmaster’s office as he could with other, less important rooms. “I will alert the Headmaster,” said the impassive gargoyle , closing its eyes. A few moments later, the stone doors rumbled open, and Binns floated up the spiral staircase and into the office, the inner door of which stood open for him. “Cuthbert, what brings you here?” said Dumbledore in surprise. It was highly unusual for the History of Magic professor to seek him out anywhere, let alone in his office. Binns normally seemed concerned only with the past that he inhabited. “Headmaster, you need to go to the infirmary immediately. Professor Flitwick is taking Professor McGonagall there; she seems to have taken ill,” said Binns. Dumbledore’s face lost its colour under the gray-streaked, auburn beard. “Thank you, Cuthbert,” he said, his concern evident only in the haste with which he swept past the ghost. He had been prepared to find Minerva ill, upset—possibly even weeping, which would have been shocking enough—but nothing could have prepared him for the scene that greeted him when he reached the infirmary. Minerva was lying on an exam table, nude from the waist down. A blanket haphazardly covered the top half of her torso. Filius Flitwick was standing on a tall stool, holding one of her legs at a ninety-degree angle. Her other leg was held by a student whose name escaped Albus in his shock. Poppy Pomfrey was standing at the end of the table, one hand inside Minerva’s vagina, the other passing her wand back and forth over the unconscious woman’s torso while she murmured words Albus could not make out. None of this shocked him as much as the blood. So much of it! Dripping in stringy tributaries from the edge of the table. Spilling from his wife’s body, the flow surging and ebbing with each beat of her heart. Flitwick, whose head was turned away from the table—whether to avoid the horror on it or to preserve his colleague’s privacy, he himself didn’t know—caught Albus’s eye, pulling him out of his petrification. “Poppy, what’s happening?” Albus asked as he approached the table. “I don’t know yet, Albus … that’s what I’m trying to find out,” she said without looking at him. He knew she was concentrating, but he could help himself. “Is it her womb?” he whispered. “I don’t think so—her uterus feels firm,” said Poppy, totally professional and in command in this moment of crisis. After a moment, she withdrew her hand from Minerva’s body. “I think she may be abrupting. She needs to go to St Mungo’s right now. Filius, wrap her warmly. Nigella, thank you, you can put her leg down now.” The young girl gently let her professor’s leg slide to the table but made no other move. “Nigella, go to your dormitory. Now!” said Dumbledore. The girl was startled out of her stupor, both by the Headmaster’s unusually harsh tone and by his use of her given name. She stepped back, then raced from the room. She would spend the rest of the afternoon and into the evening weeping into her pillow. She would also, several days later, receive a note from the Headmaster himself, apologising for his rudeness and thanking her for her help. When Filius moved to get the blankets, Albus took them from him wordlessly and wrapped Minerva in them. Having Scourgified her hands, Poppy said, “Floo, Albus. I’ll follow right behind.” Albus scooped his wife from the table, went to the fireplace opposite, and stepped in. Poppy took a pinch of Floo powder from the tin on the mantel and looked at Albus, who gave a nod. As she tossed the powder into the fireplace, he said in a clear voice, “St Mungo’s,” and they were gone. Poppy waited a few moments then took another pinch of powder and stepped into the fireplace to follow them. Stepping out of the fireplace into the St Mungo’s reception area, Albus Dumbledore let ring the full power of a voice toned by decades of public speaking and teaching: “I need Healers! My wife is bleeding!” Ordinarily, a bleeding patient was not so unusual as to draw the immediate attention of the St Mungo’s staff, but the combination of Dumbledore’s voice, his imposing stature, and the warm crackle of ambient magical power that ricocheted around him in his distress brought green-robed Healers and mediwitches and mediwizards running to him. As they began to pepper him with questions and move the blanket to see what he was holding, Poppy Pomfrey stepped from the fireplace. She grabbed the nearest Healer, saying, “This is my patient. She’s a forty-two-year-old pregnant witch, twenty-six weeks, gravida-one, para-nil. Haemorrhaging badly. I suspect an abruption.” The Healer sprang into action. “We need a room … this way, now!” He ran down the hall, Albus still holding Minerva, and Poppy, along with several other St Mungo’s medical staff, rushing along behind. When the Healer had blasted open the third door with his wand and found the room empty, he said, “Here!” The people who had been in the reception area were left in nervous surprise, quiet until a voice said, “Was that Albus Dumbledore?” Someone else said, “I think so. Did he say his wife?” There followed a flurry of speculation as to the identity of the bundle of blankets the putative Dumbledore had been holding. Nobody had caught a glimpse of the face inside. The name Minerva McGonagall was never mentioned. Albus laid Minerva gently down on the exam table and was brusquely pushed aside by a Healer who immediately began unwrapping the blankets concealing the patient. Others were waving wands or gathering supplies. The Healer who appeared to be in charge gestured to Poppy to come over to where he was standing at Minerva’s head. “How long has she been bleeding?” he asked. “I don’t know. For at least a few minutes before she got to me—she was already unconscious,” answered Poppy. “Do you know the condition of the foetus?” Poppy glanced at Albus, who was staring intently at the figure on the table, apparently hearing nothing of the conversation. She shook her head. “No heart tones.” The Healer nodded curtly, making a note in his chart. He didn’t use a Quick-Quotes Quill, for which Poppy was grateful. “What’s this?” came a voice from the end of the table. The Healer standing between Minerva’s legs—now held in place by metal stirrups—was holding a wad of blood-soaked material. Poppy went to him and said quietly, “Gauze. I packed her vagina to try to stop the bleeding. It’s a Muggle technique. Nothing else was working.” “Pfft,” scoffed the Healer. “Fat lot of good that’ll do for an abruption.” Poppy was about to explain that she had done it on the chance that the patient’s bleeding was from a cervical tear, when she realised it didn’t matter. She held her tongue and let the rude Healer do his work. “Poppy,” said a voice from behind her. It was Albus. “What’s happening? Is it her womb? Has it ruptured?” She had never heard his voice sound so small, so child-like. “No.” When she heard his sigh of relief, she knew she had to make him understand the gravity of the situation. She owed him the truth. “I think she’s suffered a placental abruption. It’s when the placenta comes away from the uterus, and it causes bleeding—sometimes severe.” When he said nothing, she put her hand on his arm. “It’s a catastrophic complication, Albus. You need to know that.” He looked at her then, his sea-blue eyes unfocused as she had never seen them, and whispered, “Will she live?” “I … I don’t know,” answered Poppy. “But Albus, the baby—” He interrupted her, “Will she live?” His voice was hoarse with desperation, his eyes now focused intently on Poppy’s face. He was begging her to lie to him, they both knew it, and it pained her unutterably to see it. “Maybe, Albus. We have to hope.” It was the best she could do for him. At that moment, a mediwizard approached them. “Professor Dumbledore?” he said gently. “I need to get some information from you if you could just step out with me for a few moments.” “No.” “Please, sir, it’s—” “I’m not leaving her.” His voice was calm, but the ambient magic crackled again, causing everyone to look up from their tasks for a second. The mediwizard looked to Poppy for help, but she just shook her head. “All right, sir. I can take the information here.” Albus nodded, not taking his eyes off the table. “What is the patient’s name?” “Minerva Sigrid Aithne McGonagall Dumbledore.” Several sets of eyes looked up, but nobody stopped working. “Date of birth?” “Fourth of October, 1925.” “Place of birth?” “Caithness, Scotland.” “Place of residence?” “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” “Place of employment, if any?” “Same.” “Occupation?” “Professor of Transfiguration.” “Next of kin?” At this, Dumbledore finally looked at his inquisitor, who had the good grace to look back down at his parchment. “Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.” “Relation to patient?” “I’m her husband.” The great man’s voice broke on the final word. ← Back to Chapter 9 On to Chapter 11→ Category:Chapters of Come Autumn, Sae Pensive (1967)